


The Handyman

by tennesseebedward



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, Hermione Granger-centric, Memory Alteration, Platonic Relationships, Regulus Black Lives, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Secret Identity, The Golden Trio Era (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23270377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tennesseebedward/pseuds/tennesseebedward
Summary: Hermione Granger has a lot on her plate. She has to finish up Hogwarts, figure out what to do with her life, and deal with Draco Malfoy's dysfunctional family. Also, her neighbor might be Lord Voldemort.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 39
Kudos: 113





	1. London, June 1979

**Author's Note:**

  * For [limeta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeta/gifts).



“I hope He rots.”

Sound traveled easy on a Knight Bus. Albus Dumbledore glanced at the witches sitting across from him. The one who’d spoken, wearing a grey blouse and purple bell bottoms, held a copy of _The Daily Prophet_. The one next to her, wearing a blue robe, tensed. Albus, feigning ignorance, opened his suitcase and shifted through its contents.

“Don’t be so loud,” the woman in the blue robe rasped. “People might hear you.”

“They should.”

Paper crinkled. Albus looked up. The woman with the grey blouse had lowered her copy of the _Prophet_. 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed to say you hate the Dark Lord,” she continued. “You should celebrate it. Scream it.”

“I don’t,” the woman with the blue robe said. “But there’s always a sympathizer near. You can’t just go galavanting around insulting Him. That’s how you get a sympathizer, and that’s how you get killed.”

“Then I get killed, and they catch another sympathizer. Sounds like a win.”

“Margerie!”

“Oh, come off it, Zelda.” Margerie raised her copy of the _Prophet_ again, flipping to the next page. “You shouldn’t act high and mighty about being complacent.”

“I’m not--!” Zelda’s voice started to raise, but she paused and lowered it again. “If I saw a Death Eater, I’d wouldn’t just let ‘em stand around. But I don’t go picking fights with every Tom, Dick, and Larry on the street. Where’s your sense?”

Margerie made a face. She lowered the _Prophet_ again to look at Zelda. “If I remember right, I lost it around the -- oh, what was it? -- twelfth person He killed? The tenth? Might’ve been earlier.”

Zelda pursed her lips together. “I don’t mean it like that.”

“Not sure how else to take it, then.”

Zelda opened her mouth, but Margerie had her head back in the _Prophet_. Zelda turned her attention to her hands, holding onto her robe tight. Albus went back to shifting through his suitcase.

“I don’t want Him to rot,” Zelda said. “He lives a long time if He rots. The minute he’s in Azkaban, I want the Dementors to rip Him to shreds. There shouldn’t be a tooth left. We’ve done enough waiting.”

Albus chanced another look. Margerie was looking at Zelda. Zelda was looking at her hands. The tremor was slight, but still noticeable.

Margerie put the _Prophet_ down. She placed one of her hands on one of Zelda’s forearms. The tremor stopped, and Zelda let go of her robe.

“That was out of line,” Margerie said. “I’m sorry.”

Zelda shook her head, but didn’t reply.

Knight Bus jerked to a stop. Albus looked out the window behind him. He recognized the building -- specifically, the red telephone booth on the corner. This was his stop. He closed his suitcase and stood. Sparing one last glance at the witches, Albus walked to the front of the bus. He tipped his hat to the driver before stepping off. 

As fast as Knight Bus had stopped, it started up again. As soon as the doors closed, it drove off. Albus waited for the bus to leave his sight before heading into the Ministry.

✾✾✾

Albus knew he held onto his suitcase too tight. When he waded through the witches and wizards throughout the Ministry’s Atrium, he didn’t care. But when he arrived at the elevators -- specifically, when he noticed a familiar red haired witch waiting nearby -- he loosened his grip. He needed to look calm, even if he was worried about what waited ahead.

“Is it Evans or Potter now?”

Lily glanced over her shoulder. She smiled when she saw Albus, but remained where she stood.

“It’s Potter.” She raised a folder of paperwork placed underneath her left arm. “Just need to file all this to make it official.”

“Congratulations.” The elevator closest to them dinged. Albus let Lily get on first. She hit the button for her floor, and he hit the button for his. Lily remained arm’s length from where he stood. “My apologies, again, for missing the ceremony.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She paused, waiting for the elevator doors to close. “Sirius told us about Regulus the morning after. Your hands were full enough that night.”

“Still, I hope my gift helped smooth things over.”

“James was thrilled to get it back." Lily, however, sounded like she was in pain. "He wants our kids to have it. Send over a bottle of Douce noir before then and we’ll call it even.”

“Of course. Expect a package once everything clears up. Just don’t let your gift disappear on you before then.”

Lily pressed her lips together. Albus had to fight not to smile at his awful joke.

Before Lily could respond, the elevator doors opened again. Lily saw who was about to enter, made a face, and stepped back. Albus remained in his spot, but moved his suitcase to his other hand.

Lucius Malfoy looked horrible. His silver hair was unkempt. His silver eyes were red-rimmed and shallow. He didn’t acknowledge Albus or Lily when he stepped inside. He just tapped an elevator button and stood off to the side.

Midway through the ride, Albus spoke. “I heard about your father, Lord Malfoy. Send him my best.”

Lucius didn’t look at him. But he sneered, so Albus knew he heard.

“If he talks to me again,” Lucius answered, “I will.”

The elevator dinged. The doors opened, and Lucius walked out.

When the doors closed again, Albus turned to Lily. She still looked mad. “You have thoughts.”

“Lucius Malfoy should be in Azkaban.” Lily stepped forward. She held the paperwork against her chest now. “It doesn’t matter what information he has. He’s marked.”

“The information’s still important,” Albus said. “If he wants amnesty for it, that’s what he’ll get.”

Lily ‘hm’-ed. Albus took note, again, of the distance between them.

“Unless,” Albus continued, “there’s something else bothering you.”

Lily jabbed her tongue into her cheek. She breathed loudly through her nose. Then:

“I know what you want to ask Him.” 

Albus didn’t react visibly to this. He’d already figured that was the case. Internally, however, he was relieved for the confirmation. If any member of the Order were to know what he planned, he’d preferred Lily to James or Sirius. “And?”

“And I trust you.” She held the paperwork closer to her chest. “I don’t like it. But I trust you.”

“You could always talk me out of it.”

“With all due respect, sir, you wouldn’t listen.”

Albus breathed a laugh.

The elevator dinged. Lily walked to the elevator doors, paused, then turned back to him.

“Just promise me,” Lily said, “if things go over your head, you’ll call.”

Albus nodded. “You’ll be the first to know.”

Lily didn’t seem more relaxed with his answer. But she did leave the elevator, focusing her attention to her stack of papers. 

He placed another hand on his suitcase as the doors slid shut.

✾✾✾

Albus didn’t have much trouble walking through the Auror Office. Most of the aurors were former Hogwarts students, so they nodded when he passed. A handful looked confused. What would a headmaster be doing in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? But then they remembered his battle against Gellert Grindelwald and his part in the Wizarding War and let him go along. The name ‘Albus Dumbledore’ was connected to two would-be magical tyrants, and he’d bested both of them single-handedly.

At least, that’s what the _Prophet_ liked to report.

But Albus never acted alone in his endeavors. Connections were essential to go on in the Wizarding World. So when he saw Regulus Black arguing with Alastor Moody, he decided to intervene.

Albus would need a while to get used to Alastor’s appearance. The war had been rough on them all, but Alastor, always first in line for a fight, got the worst of it. Beyond the visible scarring along his neck and face, he wobbled on his wooden leg, and his prosthetic eye lulled to the side every so often. But he still stood firm and tall.

The same couldn’t be said for Regulus. Beyond his fancy brown robes, bejeweled cane, and emerald brooch, Regulus was scrawny, knob-kneed, and young. Too young. Had he even completed his final year of Hogwarts? Albus couldn’t remember. Whenever he thought of Regulus, he thought of May 9th, and how tightly a half-drowned boy could hold onto a locket. It was easy to be reminded -- Inferi talons cut deep, and Regulus’s face was a series of gashes between his eyes, around his nose, and in his mouth. But he still yelled as loud as his mother.

“I’m the one who got Him caught!” Regulus shouted. “I should get to see Him!”

“And I’m His guard, so you need to bugger off!” Alastor shouted back. 

“Everything alright?” Albus spoke in a break of the argument. Alastor and Regulus turned to him.

“Quite,” Alastor said. He straightened his posture and gestured down an adjacent hall. “You’ll find Him in the third room to your right.”

“Oh, so you’ll argue with me for an hour, but the second someone else waltzes up, you immediately talk?”

“Last I checked, Albus wasn’t an annoying little--.”

“It’s alright, Alastor.” Albus gripped Regulus’s shoulder. “Thank you for your help.”

Alastor looked at Albus, then Regulus, then back to Albus. He grunted as he left, his wooden leg making his footsteps out of sync.

Albus readjusted his grip on his suitcase as he let go of Regulus. “I take it you’re well.”

“Why can’t I see Him?” The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was rarely regarded for its discretion.

Albus sighed. He turned to walk down the hall Alastor gestured to. He heard Regulus follow behind, slamming his cane on the ground with every other step.

“This is a delicate matter,” Albus explained. “No one’s supposed to see Him before the trial. I’m here on behalf of the Ministry.”

Regulus grumbled something. Albus elected to ignore it.

“Unfortunately, I also have to go alone. Any outside parties could be exploited or manipulated without the proper precautions in place.”

“I know plenty about occlumency.”

“That’s not the main concern.”

“Then what is?”

“That, I can’t tell you.”

Regulus held his cane in front of Albus’s legs. Albus looked at Regulus. His eyes were angry -- they’d probably always been angry, and would probably always stay angry. But when Regulus spoke, his voice stayed calm.

“Professor,”--he still called Albus ‘professor’. _Too young_ , Albus thought, _far too young_ \--“I don’t care what the Ministry wants. If anything said in there makes Him go free, I will take matters in my own hands.”

Albus narrowed his eyes. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.” 

That, coming from a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, held much more weight than a threat.

Regulus moved his cane away from Albus’s legs. He stamped it once against the floor, then began to limp back to the main offices of the Auror Department.

“Regulus,” Albus called.

Regulus stopped, but didn’t turn around.

Albus wet his lips. “He’ll have His day of reckoning. I can promise you that.”

Regulus didn’t respond. He instead jammed his cane against the ground one final time before walking away.

Albus sighed. He truly did wish the best for that boy. He’d seen what happened when angry young men went unchecked. He was about to talk to one such man now.

Turning around a corner, Albus found the interrogation room Alastor had referred to. He forced his grip on his suitcase to relax. He placed a hand on the door handle. With one final deep breath, Albus swung it open.

Lord Voldemort looked fine. Maybe Albus had expected more dishelvement. More problems to immediately point out. Longer nails or greasier hair. But Voldemort sat upright, as tidy as he was expressionless. The only thing to indicate he was dangerous were the handcuffs keeping him bound to an interrogation table. To many in the Wizarding World, He was so powerful He became unnamable. But to Albus, He was, and always would be, Tom Marvolo Riddle. And there was nothing more extraordinary about him beyond that.

“Tom,” Albus greeted.

Voldemort sneered at his muggle name. Still, he replied, “Albus.”

The interrogation table rested in the middle of the room. Albus walked to the opposite end of that table and sat down. The chair was cold and uncomfortable.

“Come to gloat?” Voldemort asked.

“No.” Albus leaned forward, placing his arms on the table. “I’ve come with an offer.”

“I decline.”

“You haven’t even heard it."

“If it’s coming from you, I want no part of it.”

“It isn’t. It’s coming straight from the top of the Ministry.”

“You say that as if to make it sound better.”

Albus sighed. He figured Voldemort would be abrasive. So, he picked up his suitcase and placed it on the table. He unclasped it, pulling it open. The suitcase was almost completely empty. The only thing inside -- which Albus took out, placing it squarely on the table -- was a gold locket. 

To anyone else, this locket was meaningless. But it managed to get Voldemort’s attention rather quickly.

“We know this is a horcrux, Tom. And we know it’s not your only one.”

Voldemort went from looking at the locket to looking at Albus. He tried to regain his composure as he sat back in his chair. “So?”

“So, we want to know where they are. And we’re willing to negotiate for it.”

Voldemort tilted his head.

Albus placed the locket back in his suitcase. Losing the one piece of leverage the Ministry had on Voldemort would look rather bad. “In exchange for the location of the horcruxes, we’ll...change the conditions of your sentencing. Instead of life in Azkaban, you’ll be stripped of your magic and memories to become fully muggle.”

An uneasy silence followed.

Then, Voldemort started laughing.

Albus raised an eyebrow. Of all the reactions he was expecting, this wasn’t one of them.

When Voldemort noticed Albus wasn’t laughing, he said, “You must be joking.”

“Not at all.” Albus placed his suitcase back on the ground. “Without magic, you can live on your own. We’ll keep tabs on you, of course, but you’ll be much more mobile.”

“What makes you think I would even consider this?”

“Well, we’ve arrested all of your main co-conspirators--.”

“Not all of them,” Voldemort interrupted.

(Albus meant ‘all of them’. Abraxas Malfoy’s arrest had rounded up all the main members of Voldemort’s inner circle and placed them into Ministry custody. But Albus didn’t correct him. Let him think he still had power. No matter what, he was about to lose it.)

“We still have a good many,” Albus continued. “Your reach is limited out there, Tom. If people spot you two hundred, four hundred years down the line, they’ll still attack you. Which is, of course, assuming you make it out of Azkaban at all.”

Now Voldemort stopped laughing.

“If it helps,” Albus said, “consider this a plea bargain.”

Voldemort scoffed. “Some bargain for me, then. I’ll have to die without memory or magic.”

“But you’ll die outside Azkaban. Not many in your position could say that.”

Voldemort shook his head. But he leaned back in his chair, as if to indicate he was considering it.

“Why this?” Voldemort asked. “Why these terms?”

Albus had asked the same thing when the Ministry proposed this idea to him. So, he told Voldemort the same thing he was told: “Despite everything, you’re still one of the brightest minds to come out of Hogwarts. During this memory binding process, the Ministry can...copy what’s in there. Cross-reference it, for Death Eater names or spellcasting quandaries. And we can get to it without--.”

Albus paused. He didn’t want to finish that last thought.

So, Voldemort finished it for him: “Without me around. To make sure I wouldn’t find a way to get out of the Ministry’s custody and finish what I started.”

Albus hesitated before nodding. “That’s one way to look at it, yes.” 

Albus hesitated again before holding his hand out, the tips of his fingers reaching to the middle of the table. “Well?”

Voldemort looked at Albus’s hand, then at Albus himself. The room went quiet once again as Voldemort thought.

Albus wondered what went through Voldemort’s mind. Did he think he would weasel his way around this deal? He'd spoken as though he thought someone was still outside of Azkaban -- did he think they'd come back for him, so his memories could be restored? Did he really think himself clever enough to outsmart the Ministry? With five horcruxes to Voldemort’s name, it would certainly make sense. Voldemort was nothing if not an egomaniac. But no man could outrun their fate forever.

Finally, Lord Voldemort shook Albus Dumbledore’s hand.

“Alright,” Voldemort said. “I agree.”

“Wonderful,” Albus said. “Then let’s begin.”

Albus let go of Voldemort’s hand. He reached into his pocket, raised up his wand, and flooded the room with light.

✾✾✾

Oliver Davis woke up on the floor of his living room. He’d fallen off the couch at some point in the night. Early morning light filtered through the windows. The T.V. was still on.

Mr. Davis grumbled as he sat up. He fumbled for the remote, and when he found it, shut the T.V. off. No need to waste extra money on electricity. He got off the floor and back onto his couch, breathing heavily through his nose for the effort.

He tried to clear his head. His dream had been weird -- too many half-clouded faces, too many muffled voices. He remembered bright lights and boiling liquids. Where the bright lights came from or what was boiling was less clear. The more he tried to think of specifics, the fuzzier they became. Yet there had been something familiar in all of it. Like he was supposed to know what was going on, but he didn’t. 

Had he forgotten something?

A buzz sounded from an adjacent room.

Mr. Davis rubbed sleep from his eyes. Laundry. That was it.

He double checked the clock before going to empty his dryer. He scheduled an early morning appointment the night before to unclog a drain pipe. He couldn’t forget that even if he tried.


	2. Birtwisle, September 1997 / 1991

Hermione Granger forgot to shut off her alarm. She packed instead of slept the night before. Mostly small things -- books, cat toys, money -- slipped into an extended handbag. So when six o’clock came around, the alarm went off, and Hermione jumped. She cast _Flipendo_ wandlessly. The alarm clock shattered when it hit her wall, and the pieces fell behind her dresser. 

Hermione winced. She kneeled and looked for bits of plastic on her floor. Crookshanks walked in as she swept the plastic under her bed. She didn’t get all of it, though, as she saw Crookshanks playing with a piece of the broken screen.

“Hey, no,” Hermione crawled over to her cat, “drop it!”

Crookshanks growled the closer Hermione got. She held up her pointer finger. Crookshanks looked at it, letting go of the screen. She raised her finger higher. Crookshanks followed it. With her cat distracted, Hermione grabbed away the screen, putting her finger down once Crookshanks noticed it was gone. Despite his growling, he didn’t seem to care that it was gone. As Hermione pushed it underneath her bed, Crookshanks started licking his back leg.

Hermione looked on her bed and saw one last jumper on her bed. She carefully folded it up and put it in her last remaining suitcase. After she zipped it up, she heard a car horn outside her window.

Hermione glanced at her reflection in her mirror. Her curly hair formed a mane around her head. She considered fixing her appearance some more.

The horn sounded again.

She settled on putting her hair in a ponytail. She grabbed the last suitcase and, despite some protest, Crookshanks. Hermione hurried down the stairs as fast as she could. 

When she opened her front door, Hermione saw a faded blue truck sitting in front of her house. One of the headlights was cracked and the metal of the tires was lined with rust. And leaning next to the truck was an equally old man -- her neighbor, Mr. Davis.

To her surprise, Hermione did think Mr. Davis looked older. Maybe it was because of the slight hunch in his posture. Maybe it was because of his receding hairline. But when Hermione stepped outside that morning, she briefly wondered if Mr. Davis was closer to seventy-four than fifty-four.

He still smiled the same way when he saw her, though. He lifted a hand in greeting. Hermione forced a smile as she waved back.

✾✾✾

Hermione never hated Birtwistle. But, even at eleven, the town felt small. If she walked two blocks north, she’d be downtown. Two blocks further, another county. Her best friend in EYFS lived two houses down, and her worst bully in primary school lived in the house past that. If she wasn’t a witch, her entire world would begin at Marcus Drive and end at the city limits. She was a witch, though, so she crossed the street to Mr. Davis’s house.

Hermione found Mr. Davis sweeping his front porch. She was lucky he lived so close. When she first got her magic, it was near impossible to control it. One wrong move and she’d blow out all the lightbulbs in her house, maybe create a hole in the roof. He was the only handyman that didn’t wonder why something broke in their house every other month, or why their daughter kept apologizing over repairs. He just fixed the lights or the roof and got paid.

Mr. Davis stopped sweeping when he saw Hermione reach his front lawn. “Mornin’, Miss ‘Mione. Your dad said you’d be stoppin’ by.” 

Mr. Davis had...some sort of accent. She wasn’t sure if it was a London accent or some variation of Welsh. Either way, it was thick, and he had trouble saying her full name. So he shortened it to ‘Mione’ and added the ‘Miss’ to make it sound fancier.

“Morning.” Hermione figured Mr. Davis didn’t want any more dirt on his porch, so she stood on his unmowed lawn. “Yeah, they’re working. What’re you up to?”

“The same.” Mr. Davis leaned on his broom. “Mrs. Edwards clogged her sink. You wanna help?”

Hermione nodded. The work didn’t interest her as much as talking to Mr. Davis did.

It was a quick drive to Mrs. Edwards’s house. She was an older woman, and trailed behind them to the clogged sink in the kitchen. She kept asking Mr. Davis questions about her plumbing. He mindlessly answered, but Hermione noticed he got a bit annoyed. 

So, she decided to help. “Excuse me, ma’am? Can I watch some T.V.?” 

Mrs. Edwards turned to Hermione. It was like she noticed Hermione for the first time, because she put her hands on her knees and smiled brightly.

“Aw, aren’t you sweet?” Mrs. Edwards playfully shook a finger at Hermione. “You look a bit young for a handyman.”

“That’s my daughter,” Mr. Davis said. He sounded all too eager to cut in. “Her mum’s dead and the babysitter cancelled.”

Mrs. Edwards’s smile fell. “Oh.” She straightened up and stepped away from Hermione. “I’ll, uh, leave you to it, then.”

She left the room quickly. Hermione sat down next to the sink as Mr. Davis opened the bottom cabinet doors.

“Why’d you do that?” Hermione asked.

“Do what?”

“Call me your daughter. You do that sometimes, if I come with you while you work.”

“People are nosy.” Mr. Davis stuck his head under the sink. “They don’t gotta know everythin’ ‘bout me. If I say you’re my daughter, they usually leave.” He pulled his head out and gestured to his bag. “Han’ me the torch?”

The repair only took twenty minutes. Mrs. Edwards didn’t come back to talk to them. She just handed Mr. Davis the money and apologized to Hermione on their way out. Hermione wondered what would happen if she’d said Mr. Davis was her dad. Maybe she only left because of the daughter line.

The drive back home was normal. Mr. Davis cursed out a driver who didn’t turn on his indicator for changing lanes. He apologized to Hermione for swearing. Then another driver cut him off, and he went back to cursing. 

When they got back to the house, however, things were considerably less normal. An owl sat on the gutter on Mr. Davis’s roof. It held a letter in its beak -- Hermione could see a red wax seal from where she sat.

“Oi, fuck.” Mr. Davis undid his seatbelt and rolled down Hermione’s window. “Stay in the truck, I’ll get it.”

He got out the truck and jogged to the front door. He fumbled with his keys before unlocking the door, heading inside.

The owl ruffled its feathers before noticing her. Hermione tilted her head. The owl tilted its head in return. She tilted her head to the other side. It copied her again. This probably would’ve went on, but Mr. Davis came out holding a broom.

“Piss off!” Mr. Davis slammed the broom against his gutter. The owl fluttered its wings and hopped to the side. He slammed the broom near it again. “Go on! Get!”

The owl got the message. It hovered over the roof at first, but when Mr. Davis hit the gutter again, it flew away. Before it passed the truck, though, the owl dropped the letter it held. It landed a few feet from Hermione. The envelope listed her name and address, but no way to send the letter back. Hermione got out of the truck and walked over to it. As Mr. Davis threw the broom onto his porch, Hermione traced her fingers over her name.

“Probably 'ad rabies.” Mr. Davis squinted as he looked up at the sun. “Gotta be out of its mind, runnin’ ‘round in broad daylight.”

Hermione stuck the letter in her back pocket before Mr. Davis looked back at her.

“Could I get something back home real quick?” Hermione asked.

“Course," Mr. Davis answered. He glanced around the lawn again. "Just keep an eye out for that bloody owl.”

As Mr. Davis walked to his porch, Hermione ran back to her house.

By the time she entered her house, she was sweating. She struggled to catch her breath while she opened up the envelope. She sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out the first letter inside. She held it close to her face while she read.

_Dear Ms. Granger,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall  
_ _Deputy Headmistress_

Hermione read through the letter again, and a third time. She looked through the school supplies she needed and held the train ticket in her hands.

She put her letter on the table, stood up, and looked for a phone. Her parents would want to hear this.

✾✾✾

They packed the truck quietly, but easily. Hermione only had a handful of suitcases. Her extended handbag was handy that way, if a tad illegal. The only trouble they had was putting Crookshanks in the backseat. Mr. Davis got scratched while putting him in the pet carrier. It wasn’t deep, but Mr. Davis still glared at Crookshanks while Hermione locked the door.

“Your cat’s still a prick,” Mr. Davis said. They were the first words he said to her that morning and, somehow, the most fitting. He rubbed the wrist Crookshanks scratched.

“He’s just nervous.” Hermione placed her hands on Crookshank’s carrier. “He only goes in here for the vet.”

“I’m just sayin’, you could’ve gotten any cat, an’ you got a gremlin.”

Crookshanks hissed at him.

Hermione stroked the top of the carrier. “He doesn’t mean that, honey. He’s just an old man with bad tastes.”

Hermione kept cooing at Crookshanks. Mr. Davis rolled his eyes. He went to the driver’s seat, looking for his keys on the dashboard.

Once Crookshanks calmed down, Hermione walked to the front passenger seat, and climbed inside the truck. Newspaper coupons were jammed into the sun visor. Mr. Davis’s toolbox sat at Hermione’s feet. When she buckled her seatbelt, she noticed a mug of coffee in one of the cup holders -- no cream, one sugar. Another coffee sat next to it -- two creams, one sugar -- in a lidless travel cup. Hermione carefully picked up the mug of coffee and sipped it.

Just after Mr. Davis buckled his seatbelt, Hermione looked at him. “Do you know how to build an electronic clock?”

Mr. Davis thought, then shrugged. “Can’t say I do.”

Hermione ‘hm’-ed. “Worth a shot.”

Hermione took another sip of her coffee as Mr. Davis stuck his keys in the ignition.

✾✾✾

Dr. and Dr. Granger always seemed to be getting ready for a conference. They were well regarded dentists. Apparently, a handful of papers written during their grad school years set them apart. If a coordinator needed a couple of dentists to talk about surgical procedure for root canals, the Grangers were at the top of the list. Which was good, because someone always needed a lecture about root canals.

Hermione didn’t usually care if her parents left. Mr. Davis let her watch T.V. past her bedtime, anyways. Then, the morning before September 1st, her parents announced they were going to Australia that night.

“What?” Hermione put down her spoon. “Who’s gonna drop me off at the train station?”

“Oh, Mr. Davis can do that.” Hermione’s mother wrote something on a notepad. She was on the phone with a client. “Sorry, we said noon?”

“But Mr. Davis thinks I’m going to boarding school.”

“Because you are, sweetie.” Hermione’s father was sorting through their fridge. “Where’s the jam?”

“One moment.” Dr. Granger placed the phone receiver against her shoulder. She turned to her husband. “Did you check the bottom shelf?”

The other Dr. Granger looked. “Oh, there it is.”

Hermione’s mother picked up the phone. “And it’s just a routine examination, yes?”

“But it’s a magic boarding school.” Hermione looked at both of her parents. “You and Mum freaked when we were getting my textbooks. Mr. Davis doesn’t even know I’m a witch.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Hermione’s father struggled to open the jam jar. “Just let him know after breakfast. And if it goes bad, we’ll make it up to you over winter holidays. ”

Hermione frowned. She picked up her spoon and stirred the milk left in her bowl. She wasn’t surprised her parents had something else to do. It had always been that way. “We’re busy, Hermione.” “We’ll get it done tomorrow, Hermione.” “We’ll make it next time, Hermione.” Maybe it was better for Mr. Davis to drop her off, then.

Then again, she’d have to tell him she was a witch to do that.

Hermione didn’t drink the rest of the milk. She waited for her parents to leave before pouring it down the drain. She kept wondering how Mr. Davis would react, and her stomach twisted into knots. When she did finally go to Mr. Davis’s house, she hesitated before knocking.

Mr. Davis answered the door. He tipped his hat when he noticed Hermione. “Hullo, Miss ‘Mione. Another pipe bust?”

“No.” She looked over her shoulder. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Course.” Mr. Davis crouched to look at Hermione better. “What’s on your mind?”

Hermione glanced at the street again. She stepped away from Mr. Davis’s door, looking up and down the adjacent sidewalk. But, just to be on the safe side, she gestured for Mr. Davis to come closer. She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “I’m a witch.”

When she pulled away, she watched Mr. Davis nod. “Sounds dangerous.”

Hermione almost breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t care when she clogged the sink -- why would he care about her magic?

“Real dangerous.” Hermione spoke more than whispered now. “If someone finds out you know, I’m pretty sure you’ll get killed. So this stays between us.”

Mr. Davis pressed his lips together. Hermione thought he was trying to hide a smile. But he cleared his throat, and traced a zipper over his mouth. “Mum’s the word.” 

“Good.” Hermione reached into her back pocket and pulled out her Hogwarts letter. She handed it to him, and he accepted, pulling it open. “We’ve already got the textbooks and stuff. I just need to get to the King’s Cross tomorrow morning.”

“What time?”

“Nine.”

“We’ll be there for eight.” Mr. Davis scanned the letter. He narrowed his eyes a few times, but shook his head soon afterwards. It was like watching her dad try to remember where he left his glasses. Mr. Davis handed back the letter. “Just gotta reschedule an appointment first. I’ll probably get you for six.”

Before Mr. Davis could close the door, though, Hermione said, “Oh, uh…”

Mr. Davis looked back at her.

“My parents are leaving for Australia tonight." She smiled sheepishly

Mr. Davis sighed. “They really oughta call me more.” He pushed the door open. “Right, make your bed. Bring your stuff for tomorrow, too. Might as well save the gas.”

Hermione thanked him as she hurried inside.

The rest of the night didn’t register. She was too excited to focus on anything. So when Mr. Davis shook her awake the next morning, Hermione was all nerves. She struggled to get luggage onto Mr. Davis’s tailgate, and struggled to sit still while Mr. Davis started the truck. It was only after they pulled out of Birtwisle and onto the highway that she began to settle down.

“Can I turn on the radio?” Hermione asked.

Mr. Davis made a noise of approval. Hermione clicked on the radio and scanned for the first one playing music.

She found it fairly quick. George Michael was a minute into his cover of “Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me”, and Mr. Davis nodded along to the piano, so she figured it was good. 

_“Too late to save myself from falling.”_ The song was recorded live, and parts of the crowd still screamed their support. “ _I took a chance, and changed your way of life.”_

“So,” Mr. Davis began, “magic. That’s fun.”

“It is,” Hermione answered. “But also creepy? Like, if I get mad enough, something catches on fire.”

“Still sounds fun,” Mr. Davis said. “If I could literally burn away my stress, I’d be just fine.”

“Isn’t it a bit wrong, though? At least a bit off-putting.”

Mr. Davis shrugged. “You say ‘bad’, I say ‘manageable’. You gotta think out the box, Miss ‘Mione.”

Hermione figured he was right about that, so she didn’t argue further.

This was how most of the drive went. Mr. Davis would ask something about magic, and Hermione would answer the best she could. She was still worried he found this all weird -- or, worst, a lie. But he still went along as if everything were normal.

They were a few minutes late to King’s Cross because of traffic. Though they still had an hour to get everything together, Hermione and Mr. Davis hurried through the station.

“You said Platform Ten, right?” Mr. Davis shoved the cart with Hermione’s luggage along.

“No, it’s Nine and,”--Hermione stuck her hand in her jacket pocket. She pulled out the ticket, already bent from how often Hermione held it over the summer--“Three-Quarters.”

Mr. Davis narrowed his eyes. He slowed down the cart, and Hermione slowed down with him. “There’s no Nine an' Three-Quarters. There’s a Platform Nine, then a Platform Ten.”

“That’s not what the ticket says.” Hermione held out her ticket as proof.

Mr. Davis stopped the cart in front of a brick barrier wall. He looked at the ticket, then held it up to the light. He frowned.

“Well, shite.” Mr. Davis placed an elbow on the cart. “Where do we go now?”

As Mr. Davis stared at the ticket, Hermione looked around. A family with a similar cart of luggage was coming towards them. The mother pushed the cart while the father held a cage with a white owl inside. The boy about Hermione’s age jogged ahead, looking all around the station. As the family got closer, Hermione noticed a piece of duct tape on one piece of luggage: “PROPERTY OF POTTER”.

Maybe it was the owl that got her attention. When the family stopped near the brick barrier, Hermione walked over to the mother -- Mrs. Potter, probably -- who passed the cart to her son.

“Excuse me?” Hermione asked.

Mrs. Potter, halfway through explaining something to the Potter boy, turned to Hermione.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, “but do you know where Platform Nine-And-Three-Quarters is?”

Mrs. Potter smiled. “Oh, you must be new.” She turned back to the Potter boy and asked him to talk to his father. When the Potter boy walked away, Mrs. Potter asked, “Are you with someone, dear?”

Hermione gestured to Mr. Davis. He was still looking at the ticket.

Mrs. Potter led Hermione back to Mr. Davis. “Sorry, sir, but the platform’s not in your ticket.”

Mr. Davis finally looked up. “You know where that is?”

“Yep. You know how it is -- need to keep everything secret so nobody panics. Will say I wish they thought this one through more. It’s still nerve-racking to go through, and I’ve been there plenty of times. But you’ll get the hang of it.”

Mr. Davis raised an eyebrow. “Hang of what?”

Mrs. Potter looked over her shoulder. Hermione and Mr. Davis followed her eyesight. The Potter boy was running towards the barrier wall, now, his father cheering him on. Hermione glanced at Mr. Davis -- he looked as worried as she did.

“Oi, ma’am,” Mr. Davis said, “your kid’s about to--!”

Just before Mr. Davis could finish, however, the Potter boy reached the wall. Rather, he went through the wall.

Mrs. Potter turned back to Hermione and Mr. Davis. “Loses its charm after a while, if I’m honest.”

“Wh--,” Mr. Davis paused. He was visibly much more shocked than Hermione. “He--where’d he--?”

“Oh no.” Mrs. Potter winced a little. She looked down to address Hermione directly. “Sorry if I’ve spooked him.”

If Hermione were honest, she was a bit spooked, too. But she liked being addressed as an equal, so she acted calm. “He’ll get over it."

Mrs. Potter looked at Mr. Davis, then squinted. 

“Is he a squib, by any chance?” Mrs. Potter asked.

Hermione had no idea what a squib was. “I don’t think so, no.”

“Hm. Sorry, I just,” Mrs. Potter put her hand on her chin. “I dunno. I just feel like I’ve seen him somewhere.”

“Hey, Mum!”

Hermione and Mrs. Potter turned to look at the barrier. The Potter boy still stood inside the wall, but poked his head out. He bobbed his “detached” head around.

“Mum, look!” The Potter boy had a dumb grin across his face. “I’m Head Boy!”

Mr. Potter laughed loudly, almost bending over at the sight. Mrs. Potter seemed less excited.

“Harry James Potter,” Mrs. Potter rasped, “step out that wall or stick your head back in!”

Harry somewhat listened. He stuck his head into the wall, but then he poked it out again. Then he did it again. And again. Mr. Potter couldn’t stop laughing. He had tears in his eyes. Hermione was afraid he’d choke.

Mrs. Potter sighed. She turned back to Mr. Davis and Hermione. “I’m sure I’ll figure out soon. Hope everything goes well today.”

With that, Mrs. Potter walked over to the Potter boys. Harry saw she was coming before Mr. Potter did, so he stuck his head back in the wall and stayed there. Mrs. Potter grabbed Mr. Potter’s arm and said something Hermione couldn’t hear. Mr. Potter wiped his eyes, still red-faced as they entered the wall.

Hermione and Mr. Davis stood quietly for a moment. No one seemed to notice the Potters when they entered the wall. They just kept traveling around like everything was normal. Hermione looked at Mr. Davis. He still stared at the wall. After a moment, he blinked, shook his head, and looked back at her.

She shrugged. “It’s a magic thing?”

Mr. Davis looked back at the wall, then at Hermione. “Sure.” His voice sounded higher than normal, so he cleared his throat and repeated, “Sure,” but lower.

He stayed close to Hermione, though, as they walked through the wall to Platform Nine-And-Three-Quarters.

✾✾✾

The start of the ride was quiet. Crookshanks mewed a few times, but once they got on the highway, he fell asleep. Hermione missed the noise. It was hard to talk to Mr. Davis sometimes, especially over something she cared about. 

Hermione finished the last of her coffee. When she put the mug down, she placed her hands awkwardly on her lap. This was the last time Mr. Davis would drop her off at King’s Cross Station. She’d finish her final year at Hogwarts. Maybe she’d look into muggle universities afterwards. Maybe she’d go fully explore the wizarding world. This could be the last proper conversation they have until winter holidays, and beyond that, everything was uncertain. But she wasn’t sure how to start it.

Mr. Davis cleared his throat. 

“I think I got somethin’ in the slot.” Mr. Davis gestured to the cassette player above the radio. “Could you check?”

Hermione hit the “Eject” button. A white cassette slid out. It looked new -- Mr. Davis’s cassettes were usually worn, chipped around the edges. She leaned back in her seat and read the title along the front.

Hermione laughed. “Oh, God.”

“Took me bloody ages to find it,” Mr. Davis said. He sounded like he’d been holding in this rant for a week. “Don’t even get me started on the cost. ‘Oh, it’s retro, gotta jack up the price for the dumb sonuvabitch tryin’ to buy one.’ If I see that clerk again, lemme say, it won’t be pretty.”

“And you still bought it.” Hermione slid a thumb over the title: ‘Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me’.

“Course I bought it. It’s--.” Mr. Davis paused, trying to create a word through gesture. Hermione almost suggested “sentimental”. Instead, he said, “A nice tune to send you off with.”

Hermione slipped the cassette back in the player slot. It automatically went inside. There was another beat of silence before Elton John began playing his piano. Though the tape itself was new, the song itself sounded worn. The backing track was weak, barely audible at points. Still, Elton John’s voice sounded crisp. 

_“I can’t light no more of your darkness,”_ he sang. _“All my pictures seem to fade to black and white. I’m growing tired, and time stands still before me.”_

“I thought George Michael sang this bit,” Hermione said.

Mr. Davis shushed her. “We’re enjoyin’ my hard work.”

He turned up the volume. Hermione tried to make another jab, but Mr. Davis turned the radio louder, mouthing the words “thirteen quid”. 

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her smile went from ear-to-ear. She glanced out the window. The sun peeked over the horizon now. If Hermione rolled her window down, she’d be able to smell the morning dew from the grass. She instead pressed her forehead against the glass. She closed her eyes as Elton John began the first chorus.

✾✾✾

“Right, so,” Mr. Davis began, “thought you were pullin’ me leg.”

Hermione looked up at Mr. Davis. He still stayed close to Hermione. When someone got too close, he’d occasionally pull her away. No matter what, his head kept darting around Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters.

She didn’t blame him. She could play off entering the platform through a wall. But the Hogwarts Express had a different energy to it. A cozy one. Familiar, even. But cramped. There had to be hundreds of wizarding families around them, and they all had children mucking about. A girl ran after a frog made of chocolate. Owls in cages called throughout the station.

Hermione tilted her head. “Why?”

“I just-- Well, I-- it’s magic.” Mr. Davis looked at Hermione. “Not really a thing. Least,”--Mr. Davis stared at a kid trying to start up his broomstick while his mother wasn’t looking--“didn’t think it was.”

“You’re not scared, are you?” Hermione asked. Mr. Davis always seemed so calm while fixing things around her house. She’d never seen him scared, and the thought of him scared made her scared.

Mr. Davis relaxed his shoulders. “Course not. Just rubbish I didn’t know sooner. Would make my life a breeze.”

Hermione wasn’t sure if he meant that. It made her feel better, though.

It took a few minutes to find out where to put her things. When they found an empty compartment, they shoved what they could inside, and Hermione carried what remained. By the time everything was sorted out, the train whistle sounded, giving the five minute warning.

“Right then.” Mr. Davis put his hands on his hips. “Knock ‘em dead, Miss ‘Mione.”

Hermione nodded. She kept her head held high as she stepped onto the Hogwarts Express. With the first window she passed, though, Hermione noticed Mr. Davis looked dazed. More than dazed, though, his expression just looked off. Hermione, again, thought of her dad looking for his glasses.

Then again, maybe he was just going to miss her. Hermione knocked on the window. Mr. Davis looked up. She smiled and waved, wanting to leave a good memory until winter holidays.

She caught him waving back just before the train left the station.

✾✾✾

“Miss ‘Mione?”

Hermione groaned, moving closer to the window. “Five more minutes.”

“You might miss your train, though.”

Hermione opened her eyes. They were in front of King’s Cross Station, wedged between a Subaru and a Volkswagen in the parking lot. She sat up.

“Wait,” she said, “but we were--.”

“You fell asleep on the highway,” Mr. Davis explained. “Didn’t seem like you slept last night, so I kept quiet.”

Hermione looked at King’s Cross. Her shoulders sagged. The last time Mr. Davis would drop her off at the station, and she slept through it.

Crookshanks mewed, trying to get their attention.

“Right.” Mr. Davis unbuckled his seatbelt. “I’ll get a cart.”

Hermione wanted to add something, anything, but Mr. Davis got out of the truck quickly. It took her another minute to unbuckle her own seatbelt.

While Hermione took out all of her luggage, she tried to take her mind off things. Think of her friends and the year ahead. But she couldn’t think. Her mind kept hitting a wall because she kept wondering what else to say before she left. She hated not being able to talk, especially now, and especially with Mr. Davis.

Her throat went dry. Hermione forced spit down. She wasn’t sure why she was getting so worked up. She’d said goodbye to her parents a few nights before -- they needed to leave for a conference in Belgium -- and she’d been fine. Here, she just kept freezing, and she hated that.

By the time Mr. Davis came back, cart in tow, Hermione was taking out Crookshanks’s carrier from the back seat. They piled on the luggage quietly.

Once everything was on the cart, Hermione and Mr. Davis shared a look.

“Do you wanna go inside?” Hermione asked. “Help pack the train one last time?”

Mr. Davis shook his head. “I’m sure you got it. You haven't really needed my help since '94.”

Hermione chuckled, but it petered out. She held onto the cart rail a little tighter. 

“I, um.” Hermione began. 

Mr. Davis waited for her to continue.

Instead, Hermione gave him a hug.

It was probably more for her benefit than his. She felt tears beginning to form in her eyes, and she didn’t want to cry in front of Mr. Davis. At least hugging him allowed her to squeeze her eyes shut. Mr. Davis, for his part, laughed, then coughed, then laughed again. Though he initially stood stiff in the hug, he eventually hugged her back.

“Write me,” he said. This was his usual goodbye.

“Reply,” Hermione answered. This was her usual goodbye.

They pulled apart. Hermione grabbed the edge of her cart. With one last nod to Mr. Davis, she pushed it forward. 

Just as she reached the foot of the entrance, she heard a familiar honk behind her. She turned and watched Mr. Davis wave goodbye, probably on his way to an appointment.

She waited until the truck was out of sight to go inside.


	3. Hogwarts, September 1997

“Are you okay?”

Hermione sniffed, quickly wiping her eyes. She’d been good about not crying in front of Mr. Davis -- no need to start in front of her friends. She walked into the train compartment Harry Potter and Ron Weasley sat in. “Yeah, fine. Allergies.”

“If Malfoy said anything, I’ll kick his arse.” Ron raised a fist to prove it. He couldn’t kick anyone’s arse, even someone like Draco Malfoy. But Hermione appreciated the thought.

“No, really.” She sat down next to Ron. “I’m fine.”

Ron lowered his fist, then added, “I’ll still do it, if you change your mind. Might as well start the year off right.”

“Did either of you actually see Draco today?” Harry asked. He’d peered into his backpack like he was looking for something, but closed it up when he heard Draco’s name. “He’s usually barged in by now.”

Hermione thought while she put her handbag between her and Ron. “I don’t think so, actually.”

“Neither did I.” Ron looked between Harry and Hermione. “You think he’s finally pissed off?”

“Draco? Taking a hint?” For emphasis, Hermione repeated: “Draco?”

Ron laughed.

“Hey, lay off.” Harry still smiled, though. He put his bag on the floor. Hermione pretended not to notice the smell coming off it, afraid it was some new cologne he wanted to try out. “Draco’s a prick, but I hope he’s alright.”

“Oh, sure.” Ron put his feet on the seat across from him. “‘Sides, we’ve got better things to think about.”

Hermione nodded. Still, as the train pulled away from King’s Cross, she didn’t talk. It was going to be a long day, so she settled for listening to Harry and Ron talk about the festivities that night.

✾✾✾

Hermione didn’t pay attention to the Sorting Hat ceremony. She didn’t know anyone coming into Hogwarts, and she wasn’t planning on hanging out with First Years. Nor did she pay attention to Dumbledore’s speech. It was just some fluff about the year ahead, wishing everyone a good semester. It was nice, but she’d heard it six times already. Instead, she kept trying to remember something. She’d tried remembering it on the train ride over, but couldn't concentrate long enough to figure it out.

Harry nudged her just after the feast began. “You good?”

“Yeah, I just...” Hermione tried to find a good word, but failed. So she instead said, “I feel like we’ve forgotten something.”

Harry thought, then shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

He grabbed a plate of mashed potatoes. Hermione, not knowing what else to do, handed him the gravy.

✾✾✾

The room for Seventh Year Gryffindor Girls was entirely in disarray. Half-opened trunks and disorganized books littered the room. Hermione’s bed was mostly neat, as she just wanted to pet Crookshanks for a bit. The same couldn’t be said for Fay Dunbar’s bed.

“Did anyone see Miss Pip?” Fay practically threw her robes off her bed. “I haven’t seen her since I unlocked her carrier.”

“She might’ve snuck down to the Common Room.” Josie Adams folded one of her bras while she answered. “Kneazles have a knack for slinking around.”

Fay dropped her robes and hurried out the door. Parvati Patil sat down on Hermione’s bed, making her look up. Parvati held a cup of tea in her hands.

“No,” Hermione said.

“Oh, come on.” Parvati nearly spilled the tea, still letting off steam, when she lowered the cup. “I already did Josie’s.”

“I don’t even believe in divination. That should disqualify me off the bat.”

“If you do it now, I won’t ask ever again!”

Hermione sighed. Still, if just to be left alone, she grabbed the cup and drank the tea. It tasted good -- vaguely minty. When only the grounds remained, she handed it back to Parvati.

Parvati frowned. She moved the cup around slightly. “Um. Okay, this is a bit weird. You’re gonna learn something really upsetting soon. But then you’ll go to France, so that’ll balance it out?”

Now Hermione frowned. “What?”

Parvati put the cup down. “I said I would read it. I didn’t say it would make sense.”

Before Hermione could ask any other question, Lavender Brown walked into the room. Hermione went back to petting Crookshanks as soon as Parvati went to talk to Lavender. As soon as Fay walked in carrying a grey Kneazle, though, Crookshanks stretched, meaning he wanted to be left alone. He jumped off Hermione’s bed as soon as Fay sat on it.

“Just don’t scare me like that again, sweetie.” Fay kissed the top of Miss Pip’s head. She let Miss Pip go before fully turning to Hermione. “Your birthday’s the nineteenth, yeah?”

Hermione had lived with Fay, along with every other girl in that room, for six years. She decided to not point that out when she answered, “Yep.”

“Oh, we should celebrate!” Josie leaned where she stood so Hermione could see her. “It’d be fun!”

Fay started talking out details from where she sat. Hermione decided, once again, to stay quiet. Their plans would probably fizzle out over the week, but there was no reason to be mean about it.

✾✾✾

Hermione was running late. She didn’t usually run late, but thanks to Crookshanks, she’d fallen behind on unpacking. By the time she was ready to go that night, the other Gryffindor girls had already left. So, despite how quiet Hermione wanted to be, she still got caught going down the stairs. Fortunately, the person who caught her -- Ginny Weasley -- only wanted to join her.

“What makes you think I’m going somewhere?” Hermione asked.

“Well,” Ginny began, “you’re leaving. So did Lavender and Parvati. I’m guessing Fay left, too, which means Josie’s with her. Since you’re all seniors, Harry, Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean are also gone. So either you’re all going to a party or some weird study group. And I wanna go to the party.”

Hermione sighed. “Ron’s gonna kill me.”

“I’ll deal with him.” 

Hermione looked up the stairwell, then down.

“Fine,” she whispered. “Just keep quiet until we get to the entrance. Filch’s probably near the classrooms right now, but Mrs. Norris roams.”

Ginny nodded and stepped into the stairwell. Apparently, she’d been planning on going whether or not she ran into Hermione, because she was already dressed for the occasion. “You think Luna’s gonna be there?”

Hermione did a 'so-so' hand gesture. “Maybe.”

“I’ll take it.”

With that, they tiptoed to the Common Room. 

✾✾✾

It was tradition for Seventh Years, the night after the Sorting Hat ceremony, to get smashed in the Forbidden Forest.

1997 was no different. Before everything got started, someone cast silencing charms around the immediate area. It was good that they did, too, because no one tried to be quiet. The only thing any Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin wanted to do that night was party. 

Some partygoers stayed around a large campfire. Ginny ended up finding Luna there, and the two talked on a nearby log. Neville ate chips to avoid interacting with anyone. Others hung closer to the edge of the woods. A Hufflepuff muggleborn smuggled in his stereo from home and charged a pound for requests. Parvati and her sister, Padma, couldn’t agree on a song. Lavender was high, so she was no help. Fay and Josie, also high, cuddled while they watched the stars. Most of them, however, stood between the fire and the woods, where the food and drinks waited. Dean and Seamus did shots. Harry played beer pong. And Hermione nursed a drink while Ron, as confident as he was drunk, flirted with her.

“Hey, hey Hermione,” Ron said, “are you Swedish?”

Hermione switched the hand she held her cup with. “Ron, I’ve already heard this--.”

“No, Her-- no, it’s good, I swear. Answer it. Please.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not what?”

Hermione paused, then sighed. She did walk into that one. So: “I’m not Swedish.”

“There’s no way,” Ron said. He was already smiling. “‘Cause you're the sweet-ish girl I've met.”

It was a horrible pick-up line. Hermione just shook her head and took a sip of her drink. Ron, meanwhile, stared at her, with his dumb, drunk grin remaining.

“Your hair’s nice,” he said.

Hermione rested her chin on her hand. “That’s great, Ron.”

Ron tilted his head. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m--.”

“You’re not fine.” Ron’s smile faded. “Was it the Swedish bit?”

“No, no, that was--.” Hermione paused and tapped her cup. She didn’t want to talk about what was actually bothering her -- the future, generally, and how things would change -- so she settled on a more minor thing. “You always talk like this when you’re drunk. But tomorrow you’ll act like nothing happened.”

“Now’s different, though. I’m crazy ‘bout you, ‘Mione.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it,” Ron sat up. “You’re pretty and smart and also really pretty.”

“I believe you.” She looked into her cup this time. It was almost empty, and Hermione wouldn’t finish it, anyways. She put it on the grass. “Just...if you really, really mean it, actually talk with me tomorrow, okay?”

Ron furiously nodded his head. At least she didn’t have to hear any more pick-up lines.

Just to make sure, though, Hermione gestured to the food tables. “I think I saw some chicken wings on the way in.”

Ron’s eyes lit up. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye to Hermione before leaving.

Hermione was about to get another drink when Harry, having lost another round of beer pong, plopped down next to her. He still wore his backpack. It got a few weird looks, but no one was about to ask why he kept it.

 _Sick party,_ he said.

Ginny and Luna, who sat closest by, looked around in confusion. Parseltongue, to anyone who couldn’t understand, sounded like a balloon deflating. But, much like a balloon deflating, it went away fast. Ginny and Luna went back to talking while Hermione turned to Harry.

“You can’t do that here,” Hermione whispered.

 _What,_ Harry answered.

“I said you can’t do that here.” Hermione spoke louder. “I know what you're saying. Doesn’t mean everyone else should.”

Harry frowned. “You’re no fun.”

“Yeah. That’s why we’re friends.”

Harry hissed in protest. 

Hermione rolled her eyes and stood up. “Save my spot?”

“Sure.” Harry immediately slid off the log, instead resting his head against it. “You’re gonna feed Rachel?”

Hermione, mid-step, froze. She lowered her foot and turned around. “I thought you fed her.”

_It’s your turn._

“It’s not my -- how would I even get in?”

Harry started an explanation, but it turned into mumbling, and eventually fizzled out altogether.

Whereas Harry was relaxing near the fire, Hermione tried, and mostly failed, to stay calm. “Oh fuck. Oh no. I can't -- I knew I was forgetting something. We gotta go feed Rachel.”

Harry groaned. “I don’t wanna get up.”

“Harry!”

 _But,_ Harry grumbled, _party._

“We’ll go back after.”

Hermione actually wasn’t sure about that. Filch would be closer to the Slytherins now, so getting out would be hard. But it got Harry to stand up, and that’s all that mattered.

While the Seventh Year Party continued on, Hermione and Harry stumbled towards Hogwarts.

✾✾✾

It was shockingly easy to get to the second floor bathrooms, even with Harry talking through most of the trip. Hermione expected someone to notice them sooner. But no one did, and so they were able to activate the right sink to reveal the tunnel below. They carefully hiked down until reaching a large, vault-like door with a snake engraving in the middle.

Harry turned to Hermione. “Got any requests?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“No, really, I’ll say anything.”

“I’m not the parselmouth.” Hermione didn’t mean to snap, but waiting outside the Chamber always made her nervous. So she made sure to sound nicer when she added, “Say what you want.”

Harry thought. He snorted. He opened his mouth, then snorted again. Harry cleared his throat. He opened his mouth again, even got a syllable out, before he broke into giggles. Then, finally, he spoke: _Stonk._

Harry wheezed. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. Hermione wasn’t sure what he found funny. What really mattered was that the door was activated. The snake engraving, once frozen, now moved throughout the door, unlocking the deadbolts connected to the cave ceiling. Hermione led Harry away from the door as it swung open, its metallic groan bouncing off the walls.

Hermione had to keep Harry steady while they walked into the Chamber. The floor was always slick with water, either from the sewer grates or the pool further ahead. What really gave the Chamber menace is what slithered out of the water. 

Hermione stopped midway into the Chamber. The Basilisk was still menacing, even with a large, pink scar covering her eyes. Harry, however, spoke nonsense in parseltongue, drawing the Basilisk forward. Once he was close enough, Harry cupped the Basilisk's face in his hands. The Basilisk’s tongue flicked around Harry’s face, and hissed in delight.

 _Speaker,_ she hissed. _Welcome._

_Hey, Rach._

(Why Harry called the Basilisk “Rachel”, of all things, Hermione still didn’t know. His only explanation had ever been “it sounded nice”.)

_Speaker, you’ve been away for so long. Mice make awful company._

_I can’t get on campus over holidays._ Harry pet Rachel’s cheek in apology. _Mum’s tried._

_Try harder._

_Wouldn’t see you if I got expelled._

_Try hard._

_I’ll tell her,_ he promised. Harry put his hand down. _Herm’s here, too._

Hermione stepped forward. Harry could approach Rachel whenever he wanted -- he was a Speaker, so he was respected. If Hermione did the same, she’d probably be killed. Rachel slithered forward, lowering her head to Hermione’s height. Her tongue also flicked around Hermione’s face. It was slimy, but better than being mauled.

 _Hearer,_ Rachel said. _You’re alive._

“I’d hope so.”

_How long are your fingernails?_

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Uh, long enough?”

Rachel lowered her head to Hermione’s chest. She inched forward, stopping when Hermione could touch where her neck and body met.

 _Please,_ Rachel hissed, _it itches._

Hermione scratched Rachel’s neck. “Here?”

Since Rachel fully put her head on the floor, Hermione guessed it was the right spot. She continued scratching Rachel’s neck while Harry fumbled through his bag.

 _Again, sorry about the wait,_ Harry said. _M_ _aybe this’ll make up for it?_

He pulled out a prepackaged cut of ground beef. He pulled open the plastic cover. Hermione’s nose scrunched at the smell. It had definitely been in Harry’s bag all day. Then again, the second he put it in front of Rachel, she inhaled it. To each their own.

While Rachel chewed the last of the beef, Harry scratched the top of her head. He glanced down the Chamber hall, looked at Rachel, then glanced down the hall again. Hermione was about to ask what was wrong when he spoke: _She doesn’t bite._

It took Hermione a second to realize he wasn’t talking to her. She shot up, grabbed her wand, and pointed it blindly down the Chamber corridor. _“Petrificus Totalus!”_

Something -- someone, rather -- fell to the floor in the dark. Hermione ran down the corridor. Harry, on the other hand, sat down, hissing something while Rachel coiled around him. When she saw who’d been eavesdropping, she winced.

“Okay,” she said, “just hear me out before you say anything.”

Hermione undid the spell. She knew the first words out of Draco Malfoy’s mouth before he even said them.

“My father will be hearing about this!”


	4. London / Azkaban / Hogwarts, September 1997

_Lucius --_

_I’m dying. Please get your poor, aging father out of jail, at least so he won’t die in here._

_\-- Père_

While sitting in one of the Ministry's many waiting rooms, Draco read the note over again. He was never sure how his grandfather got letters outside Azkaban. There had to be some promise of prestige or money involved. Though said promise would ultimately be unfulfilled. Abraxas Malfoy barely had any influence now -- Lucius had inherited the estate as soon as Abraxas went to jail. Still, the letters remained consistent, albeit increasingly shorter. Draco held the most recent one. Yet it sent his father into a tizzy.

“I’m sure this’ll be over soon.” Narcissa Malfoy held Draco’s hand. Whatever sense she’d gotten from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black held, and she was determined to have it rub off on Draco. He knew this, and -- overhearing his father arguing with yet another Ministry worker -- loved her dearly for it. “You’ll be at school before you know it.”

As soon as his mother looked away, Draco frowned. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about going back to Hogwarts -- people there didn’t respect the Malfoy name as much as they should. But if it meant getting away from his father, he was more than willing to leave.

Lucius threw open the door adjacent to where Draco and Narcissa waited. They stood while he walked out. A Ministry worker, a short, pudgy, miserable looking man, trailed after.

“I really am sorry, Lord Malfoy.” The worker didn’t exactly sound sorry. He sounded like he was glad someone stopped yelling at him. "We've tried everything we--."

“‘Tried’?” Lucius stopped and turned on his heel. The worker nearly crashed into him. “Had you actually tried anything, I wouldn’t have to be here.”

“Lord Malfoy, please--.”

“And if I even see you around here again, I’ll--!”

The sound of a cane interrupted them both. Draco, Lucius, Narcissa, and the Ministry worker turned.

Lucius cleared his throat and stood up straight. “Lord Minister.”

“Regulus,” Narcissa curtised. “It’s been too long.”

Draco and the worker made sure not to say anything at all.

Minister Black still limped. His bejeweled cane looked like it’d been used for seventeen years. All things considered, though, he had healed remarkably well. His face was rougher and discolored in certain spots, but cohesive. More than other survivors of Inferi attacks could say. What really made people stare at him were his arms. One sleeve of his robe hung to his wrist, but the other was rolled up. A talon had cut across the skull in his Dark Mark, and he still displayed it. It’d been a big promotional image for his campaign.

He waved off Narcissa’s curtsy. He, instead, turned to the much more frightened Ministry worker. “You have other priorities.”

The worker bowed, sincerely apologized, and left.

“What’s his name again?” Minister Black straightened up, causing his cane to ring out across the floor.

“Mr. Tennyson.” Lucius, forever wanting to be the bigger party, answered.

Minister Black ‘hm’-ed, which probably meant Mr. Tennyson would be out of a job tomorrow.

Lucius smoothed out the wrinkles in his coat. “Since you are here, Lord Minister, could I possibly--?”

“Leave,” Minister Black replied. “I’ve read your petitions, and they’re all inane. Stop taking up valuable resources.”

Draco looked at his father, unsure how he would reply.

Instead, Narcissa grabbed Lucius’s hand and offered up a smile. She’d probably lived with Regulus long enough to know how he worked. “Of course. We’re sorry to have taken your time, and are glad you still decided to speak with us.”

Regulus nodded. It was hard to believe he was in his thirties. He acted as if he were twenty years older.

He half-bowed. “Narcissa. Draco.” He never addressed Lucius. No one did.

Narcissa once again curtsied, and Draco followed his father’s lead of bowing in return. “Lord Minister,” she returned.

Minister Black took his leave. Narcissa turned to Lucius.

“ _Père_ won’t like this,” Lucius said. Draco heard what his father sounded like worried before. What he sounded like now was not so much “worried” as it was “terrified”.

Narcissa placed a hand on his arm. “We’ll find a way around this.”

A part of Narcissa’s sense came from knowing when to lie. Draco ought to take more notes on that front, to make sure he could survive more visits to Abraxas.

✾✾✾

Azkaban was garbage. There was no nicer way to say it. It was cold, and dark, and terrifying. Draco never understood why the Malfoys couldn’t just rely on the notes Abraxas sent for communication. Why they insisted on also visiting him in person, paying off whatever guard was on duty for ten minutes of peace. It wasn’t like any of them liked to do it. The only person who seemed to gain anything from the experience was writing something on his walls.

Despite everything he went through in Azkaban, Abraxas had yet to lose his mind. If anything, it gave him a better grasp of the world around him. And all of it seemed to be tied to arthimacy. His cell was covered wall to wall with numbers and equations. That he still found space to write more never failed to amaze. It was through these numbers that the Malfoys still had their wealth, and it was through these numbers that Abraxas could seemingly know the future.

For example: as soon as Lucius approached his cell, Abraxas looked at him and said, “You failed to pass another petition.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Lucius replied. He sounded like a child trying to justify a broken toy. “The Ministry never listens.”

“And you never work around them.” Abraxas got off the ground. His hair was shorter than Draco remembered. Yet it couldn’t have been cut normally -- no sharp objects or spells were allowed in Azkaban, and the ends of his platinum blonde hair looked torn off rather than cut. “Really, you’re embarrassing yourself at this point.”

“You sound like you don’t want to get out here,” Narcissa said. Had Lucius done the same, Abraxas probably would have made him suffer, magically or not.

But since Narcissa had said it, Abraxas merely shook his head. Holding a piece of chalk in his hands -- that must’ve cost separately from the notes, since chalk could be a nice vehicle for magic -- he walked to the other wall. “Oh, trust me, _mon cher_ , I do. But I have better ways to go about it.”

“Blood traitors!” 

Draco jumped and turned. He was the only Malfoy to do so. Bellatrix Lestrange, stuck in the cell across from Abraxas, usually commented something whenever they came around. It still freaked him out to hear her voice. Her loud, loud voice. 

“Wonderful to see you too, dear sister.” Narcissa answered.

“Backstabbers!” Bellatrix yelled. “Cowards!”

“Do you mind, Bella?” Abraxas struck through some numbers, then wrote the same numbers underneath. “This is my visitation time.”

“Lap dogs.” But Bellatrix retreated into her cell. Draco would’ve liked her more had she not constantly accused them single-handedly killing the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

“What are you working on now?” Narcissa, ever the master of changing the subject, read over the equation Abraxas worked on.

“I’m reworking an older formula.” He didn’t look at her, just the numbers he referred to. “I need to find Him.”

No one needed to ask who He was.

“ _Père,”_ Lucius, ever the master of not taking a hint, began, “He’s--.”

“He’s not dead.” Abraxas pressed the end of his chalk too hard against the cell wall, and it snapped. He turned it over and started writing with the other end instead. “I would know if He was.”

“Maybe He doesn’t want to be found.” Narcissa sounded worried. It wasn’t even a deep type of worry -- surface level, if that. Then again, Narcissa was a Black, and Black magic was mind magic. Draco wasn’t sure if her surface level worry could lead to something deeper.

“Of course He doesn’t.” Abraxas added some numbers together, then frowned at the results. He struck through all of his calculations thus far and started fresh. “That’s why I’m doing this. If He doesn’t want to be found, then I’ll drag Him out myself.”

There was a knock at the door sectioning off this cell block from the rest of Azkaban. Their time was almost up.

Lucius began to say goodbye to his father when Abraxas suddenly looked over at Draco. “Hogwarts starts today, doesn’t it?”

Draco, rather than respond directly to his grandfather, nodded.

“That’s what I thought.” Abraxas scratched out one of his numbers and added another. “Wanted to make sure my timing was right.”

✾✾✾

Technically, no one could apparate to Hogwarts. They could apparate to Hogsmeade, though, and that was much closer. Draco, on arrival, usually would’ve gone straight to Hogsmeade Station and found a carriage. But the visit to Abraxas, for one reason or another, upset him. So he decided to walk to Hogwarts instead.

It wasn’t a long walk -- twenty minutes, if that. Draco still hated every minute of it. He failed to account for his brain, which, in the longer time to walk to Hogwarts, made him think more about Azkaban. And this wasn’t something he could talk about to others. He couldn’t just waltz up to Crabbe and Goyle in the Common Room and say, “Herbology sucked today. My grandfather’s continuing imprisonment really puts a damper on holidays. Anyways, homework?”

Draco jammed his hands into his pockets. He tried to focus on the sound of rocks beneath his feet. It didn’t work.

✾✾✾

By the time he actually saw Hogwarts Castle, it was night. He knew about the Seventh Year Party going on, even if he couldn’t quite figure out where it was. He wasn’t in a particularly festive mood. When he reached the Castle, he made sure to check for Mrs. Norris before walking in.

Then he remembered Filch, and realized he probably wouldn’t be in his dorm for at least another half hour.

Today was horrible.

The one advantage to Hogwarts was its size. Draco could waste a night wandering around floors and moving staircases. Yet all of it, once you learned the ropes, was perfectly navigable. Someone would have to try to be fully lost in Hogwarts. It was much easier to accidentally be found.

Case and point: Draco, upon reaching the second floor stairs, heard someone in the bathrooms. He almost immediately recognized Harry Potter’s laughter, mostly because it was too annoying to mistake for anything else.

“Harry,” another person -- Hermione Granger, Draco realized. He was surprised she would get wrapped into Potter’s nonsense instead of the Weasley boy. She had more sense than the two of them combined -- rasped, “shut it! Someone could hear us!”

“Shite, sorry,” Harry replied.

Hermione shushed him again.

“Shite, sorry,” Harry repeated, but lower this time.

There was a hiss, then something even began to move. Draco went over to the girl’s bathrooms and saw not Hermione and Harry, but a tunnel entrance where a sink should be.

It was hard to describe his thoughts while going down into the tunnel. He nearly slipped on one too many rocks. Nor was it any easier to say what he thought about the large metal door he came across, just the slightest bit open. Seeing the Basilisk was, yet again, another matter entirely. But it was much easier to describe his thoughts when Harry stared straight at him and hissed something, causing Hermione to turn with her wand brandished: _Potter’s a dead man._

Draco started to run, but Hermione was faster. His limbs stuck to his side as he fell to the floor. Miracle that his nose didn’t break. If it had broken, Hermione would’ve had to listen to his lawyers for the next year.

When he heard Hermione speak again, he was glad she sounded nervous. “Okay, just hear me out before you say anything.”

The second she undid the spell, Draco sat up. It wasn’t very dignified to yell “My father will be hearing about this!” to someone in direct contact with a Basilisk, but if Draco wasn’t going to give it his all.

“Oh, the horror.” Draco didn’t like Hermione’s sarcasm. “Look, we can explain--.”

“Explain? Explain a bloody Basilisk under the lavatory?” Draco jabbed an accusatory finger towards the Basilisk, but when it picked its head up, he looked away.

“She can’t see you,” Hermione said. “She’s blind.”

“It might trick you, but it won’t trick me.”

“Rachel wouldn’t do that.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, but still refused to look ahead. “‘Rachel’? You named a Basilisk ‘Rachel’?”

“No, Harry -- it’s a long story. Look, if she could turn people to stone, I would know.”

“How?”

Hermione explained how.

“You can’t teach parseltongue!” The disgust in the word ‘teach’ alone probably should’ve changed Hermione’s tune. Then again, this was Hermione Granger. Draco couldn’t expect anything from her. “It’s impossible!”

“Technically, yes. I can’t speak anything. But I can translate it, as a,”--Hermione paused. Then, she sighed, and continued--“as a Hearer.”

Only now did Draco turn to look at her (and only her, because a Basilisk, especially one named ‘Rachel’, was not to be trusted,) so she could see him sneer. “Who’d be dumb enough to call you that?”

“I did!” Harry sat up. Draco didn’t think he heard the ‘dumb enough’ part. “I did that! ‘Cause like, I’m a speaker, ‘cause I do the, you know, the _sssss-_ thing, you know? You know. And Hermione can hear it. I mean you ca-- Yeah, like, anyone can hear _ssssssssss,_ but Hermione hears _ssssssssss_ and goes ‘yeah sure mate, I’ll get pizza’, and so… Yeah.” 

Harry blinked, leaned back, and started hissing to Rachel again. Rachel coiled further around his body. Maybe it would do them all a favor and strangle him. Beat Draco to the punch, at least.

“Just,” Hermione began, “pretend to be alright with this. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Why should I do that?”

“You’re not supposed to be here, either.”

Draco stuck his tongue in his cheek. The last thing he needed was a reason for his father to check in on him, no matter how much he threatened to write him to others.

“Fine.” Draco pointed at Hermione. “But you owe me one.”

“Absolutely.”

Draco was going to hold her to that.

While Hermione went back to Harry, Draco turned and began walking back to the entrance of the Chamber. The last thing he needed was to smell like sewer water and dead mice.

✾✾✾

The next morning, the Great Hall was practically silent. Great parties often lead to greater hangovers. Hermione offered an apologetic smile to Harry when he pressed his head against the cool wood of the table.

“I have something for headaches,” Hermione said.

Harry, instead of answering, held out his hand. Hermione unclasped her extended handbag and stuck half of her arm in. She pulled out a potion and put it in Harry’s hand. Though she knew it tasted terrible, Harry picked his head up and drank it in one go. He shuddered when he swallowed, but he looked more alert.

“Has Draco said anything yet?” Harry asked.

“No.” Hermione picked at her cereal. “I think he’s keeping well enough alone, at least for now.”

“Draco Malfoy not talking about something. Wild.”

Hermione closed her eyes while she chuckled. When she opened them again, she noticed Ron struggling across the room. So she put down her spoon and waited for him to get closer.

“Hey, Ron,” Hermione greeted. “Got anything you wanna talk about?”

Ron turned to her, already seeming disoriented. He squinted while he thought. Then he winced and held his head. 

“Got anything for a migraine?” he asked.

Hermione figured as much. She pointed down the table. “Lavender might.”

Ron nodded. He half-walked, half-stumbled to where Lavender and Parvati sat. When Hermione turned back to Harry, he was frowning.

“He’ll say something soon, I think,” Harry said. “Real soon.”

“He won’t, but thanks.” Hermione considered getting a coffee, but decided against it. She never liked the roast they went with. So she rested her elbows on the table, deciding to kill some time before class. “What are your electives this year?”

✾✾✾

Draco was the last person in his room. Crabbe and Goyle tried to stay behind, but he’d easily shooed them off. That was the one great thing about Crabbe and Goyle: they still respected Malfoys. But in this matter, even his most loyal had to be treated with suspicion.

He pulled out a piece of paper and an envelope, grabbing his fanciest quill pen on his desk. Hermione Granger was a freak, Harry Potter was her freak friend, and both of them had decent connections throughout Hogwarts. So he had to write to his mother in secret.

Would she be worried that he wrote so early? Perhaps.

Then again, she would probably understand as soon as she read about the Basilisk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! hope you've been enjoying things so far! my goal is to have a new chapter posted every friday, so keep that in mind from this point forward. can't wait to see how you'll react to the rest of the story!


	5. Birtwisle, September 1997 / 1991

Mr. Davis hated Heather Walsh’s house. Miss Walsh had a thing for clowns. A “cover her walls with portraits” thing for clowns. A “proudly display her statue collection in the living room” thing for clowns. If clown-themed wallpaper existed, she would probably have or, at least, considered owning it. She also called him over a lot. Too much, one would say.

“It’s the piping.” While leading him to the bathroom, she explained her house’s problems unprompted. Mr. Davis had been there enough to know how awful her pipes were. This leak was really one of the most benign leaks she’d reported. There was really no need to expand on anything. Then again, if even the most minor detail needed to be expanded on, Miss Walsh definitely would. “Really got to get them replaced sometime. Oh, but that’ll cost a fortune. I have no idea how to pay for it.”

“Sell the clowns,” Mr. Davis suggested.

Miss Walsh laughed. It sounded like a parrot squawking. She fluffed up her blonde bob as she left. She’d put on a new perfume today -- vanilla. It smelled sweet and entirely artificial. It was a nice gesture, but not a necessary one.

Mr. Davis looked at the toilet. The piping had certainly been shredded over the decades. Mr. Davis traced his finger along the bumps of rust along the pipe, trying to find where the leak was.

He was glad that repairs came basically on autopilot for him. He was still distracted from the morning. Maybe he should’ve joined Hermione one last time in King’s Cross. Give her a more proper send-off than just a hug in a parking lot. But she seemed like she needed some distance, so he had gone with his gut and started driving back to Birtwisle as soon as he could. Miss Walsh’s appointment had just been a coincidence in his favor.

Then again, in a house full of clowns, was really anything in his favor?

The leak itself was easy enough to find. The hole was small enough so that he could cover it with some adhesive material on hand, but large enough that he told Miss Walsh to not enter the bathroom. The hole was small now, but with the age of the pipes, one leak would lead to two, and would then grow into a much bigger problem. He needed to run and get a specific piece of equipment in order to patch the leak effectively. If the adhesive material ended up peeling off before he got back, he didn’t want her shoes to get ruined.

“Oh, you’re a lifesaver.” Miss Walsh followed Mr. Davis to the door. “You know my friend Tiffany tried to recommend me a plumber? We were having dinner together Thursday night, and she tried to talk me into using a fancy new plumbing service she had heard about on telly the next time I needed my loo repaired. According to her, they use state-of-the-art equipment for every job, and were in and out of her house before she could even close the door. But you’re the best around, Mr. Davis. My Greg would’ve thrown a fit if he’d heard about calling someone else.”

Greg Walsh was her husband. He’d also been dead for eleven years. Mr. Davis never even met him.

“Glad to hear,” Mr. Davis replied. “Always nice to ‘ave a loyal customer ‘round.”

That wasn’t supposed to be a joke, but Miss Walsh squawked out a laugh anyway. Mr. Davis took it as his cue to leave.

“Oh, and Mr. Davis?”

Mr. Davis turned. She smiled. There was a small gap between her front teeth. Had it not been Miss Walsh, it would look charming.

“I’m looking forward to tonight,” she said.

Mr. Davis hoped the smile he returned wasn’t too uncomfortable before he walked to his truck.

✾✾✾

If he were being honest, Miss Walsh’s house wasn’t the worst one he had been to. The actual worst house was Alfred Dickinson’s.

He only went there a handful of times as a handyman. It was his first appointment the week after he dropped off Hermione at King’s Cross for the first time. He remembered it’d been odd to get a call like that so soon after term started. Mr. Davis figured Mr. Dickinson rented the house he lived in for holidays, because it certainly never looked like someone actually lived there. The furniture was too clean, too freshly bought to be used more than once or twice a year.

But then there was Mr. Dickinson himself. He was a much older man. His white beard ran past his knees, and his hands were wrinkled beyond belief. He never acted his age, though. There was a sparkle in his eyes and sureness to his step unfamiliar with Mr. Davis’s other older clients. Mr. Davis was sure Mr. Dickinson was hiding something. The name “Alfred Dickinson” alone sounded like a really bad pseudonym for someone with the initials “A.D.”

Not that he actually brought this up to Mr. Dickinson, of course. Mr. Dickinson often paid way too much for the relatively small, simple jobs that Mr. Davis had to deal with, so if he turned out to be a former KGB agent or something, he might as well turn a blind eye for now.

“It started hissing out of nowhere this morning,” Mr. Dickinson explained. He gestured to the lime green refrigerator in front of them. “It’s been fading in and out since then. I don’t know if it is some unconnected hose or loose fan blade, but I do hope it is easily fixable.”

Mr. Davis looked at the refrigerator a bit too long. He knew what would happen as soon as he started to work on something in Mr. Dickinson‘s house, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Anything the matter?” 

Mr. Davis blinked. “No. S’fine.”

He opened the fridge door and poked around inside.

The pain that shot through his head was sudden and fast. It felt as though his own memories were being ripped out. He also wasn’t sure about most of his surroundings anymore. Whenever he tried to focus on a thought, it collapsed in on itself. He was in a fridge. He was fixing something. But what? Had Mr. Dickinson even clarified?

After a certain point, Mr. Dickinson thanked him for fixing his fridge. He paid Mr. Davis a lot of money. Too much money. Mr. Davis never had the chance to tell him this, though. Mr. Dickinson would help him out of the house, and then he was walking through the world again.

He did appointments.

He went home.

Some neighbors asked after his health.

He wasn’t sure who they were.

Four days passed like this. This was how it always went after a visit to Mr. Dickinson’s house. 

Then, something else happened. When he got home from work one day, he found a package on his doorstep. He wasn’t expecting a package that day. Then again, maybe he had just forgotten about it. So he took it inside. The package itself was crudely wrapped. The handwriting for his address and the return were neat, but not extremely fancy. He tore away the wrapping paper. There was a small card attached to the top of the white box underneath. It read: 

_Mr. Davis:_

_Mum and Dad said you were under the weather, so I hope this makes you feel better. :)_

_‘Mione_

Mr. Davis wasn’t sure who “Mione” could be at first. Whenever he tried to think about the name, his migraine worsened. Then, when he opened the package to find various candies inside, things started to make more sense. There was an almost familiar comfort to the jellybeans or the moving frog. But, most importantly, his migraine settled. He could think clearly about his work, and his errands, and his neighbors.

He couldn’t believe he almost forgot about Hermione.

How could he almost forget about Hermione?

Somehow, he knew it had to do something with Mr. Dickinson’s house.

✾✾✾

The hardware store Mr. Davis found the piping piece he needed had a greeting card section. The cards themselves were fairly stock -- just a fancy design outside with a blank inside -- and inexpensive. He’d been on the lookout for a card for Hermione’s eighteenth, but hadn’t been able to find a good one. It had to be considerate, but not overwhelming. Poor girl must’ve been overwhelmed enough already. Final year of schooling, figuring out next steps. Not to mention the magic stuff. He was…

Mr. Davis would’ve liked to say he was once the same way, without all the magic influence. He couldn’t. Really, anything before 1979 was fuzzy or entirely forgotten. Bits and pieces would clear up in his head temporarily, and would leave as quick as they came. He probably should’ve seen a doctor about it, but that was just an unnecessary extra expense.

He looked through the available cards. He settled on a card with a floral design and a dark purple envelope surrounding it. Understated, but not without a touch of flare to it. He held it tight in one hand as he went to the checkout line.

✾✾✾

The restaurant Miss Walsh chose -- and she did pick the restaurant, there was no way he would be able to choose a restaurant more expensive than McDonald’s -- was quite fancy. It was hard to find a menu option that wasn’t less than fifty pounds. Mr. Davis couldn’t even pronounce half of the names of the courses. Miss Walsh could, though. She had apparently been there enough times to know exactly what she and Mr. Davis would like to eat based on their wine choices.

Her conversation topics were rather tame to start out with, though. “How’s Hermione?”

“Fine. At boardin’ school.”

“She’s eighteen this year, isn’t she?” Miss Walsh smiled wistfully. “Grand thing for a girl. Must scare you to death, though.”

Mr. Davis gave her a look.

“Oh, I’d only meant. You know. Well, it’s scary for any father, when their little girl grows up.”

That’s right. He told Miss Walsh they were related, probably while Hermione was with him. That must’ve been years ago -- six, maybe seven. The cover story had been a nasty divorce. Maybe that’d endeared him too much to Miss Walsh, landing him here in the first place.

Not that Mr. Davis wanted to correct her. A man was entitled to his privacy. “Still hasn’t sunk in, I guess.”

Miss Walsh nodded. “Greg mentioned kids a little after we married. I couldn’t wrap my head around babies, so I said I didn’t want any. Still can’t, I don’t think.” Miss Walsh picked up her wine glass. “How’s everything else for you?”

The conversation from there was pretty tame. They both made small talk. It wasn’t horrible, but it also wasn’t great. Dinner itself was good, though. Miss Walsh paid the bill. Mr. Davis feigned an argument over it -- “Oi, I gotta, it’s proper” -- though, honestly, he was glad for it. Miss Walsh made more in a month than he did in a year. If she wanted to treat him, she should treat him.

✾✾✾

The sex afterwards was awkward. Mr. Davis wasn’t sure how much he liked having sex in general, but he definitely didn’t like a weeping clown portrait watching him do it. He shifted away from Miss Walsh, to the point that one of his legs hung off the side of the bed. Miss Walsh turned on a light and grabbed the cup of water she kept on her bedside table.

“Well?” She asked.

Mr. Davis stared at the ceiling, determined to zone out.

“Olly?” Miss Walsh touched his shoulder.

He couldn’t ignore her now. Mr. Davis turned to her. “I’d rather Oliver.”

“Oh, sure.” Miss Walsh took a sip of her water and tapped the side of the cup. “Well? What’d you think?”

“It was...nice,” Mr. Davis lied.

Miss Walsh looked awfully pleased with herself. “It was rather nice.”

She took another sip of water. A part of Mr. Davis wanted to give her a better compliment, but couldn’t break himself to do it.

“You don’t regret having her?” Miss Walsh asked.

Mr. Davis raised an eyebrow. This was definitely not a traditional pillow talk. “What?”

“I mean--.” Miss Walsh paused. “I’m sure she’s lovely. But your divorce sounded horrible. Adding a pregnancy onto that? No way. I would’ve chosen one or the other.” She took another sip. 

Mr. Davis figured what she said finally processed, because she stopped drinking too quickly and started coughing.

“What I meant--.” Miss Walsh coughed. “I only meant that the pressure for me, personally, would be a lot, s-- not that it’s been too much for you, of course! Clearly, you’re doing great. And I’m sure Hermione’s great. You’re all great. Sweet dear, hope she has a good birthday. And--.”

“Why clowns?” Mr. Davis asked.

The question caught Miss Walsh off guard. “Sorry?”

“The clowns.” Mr. Davis looked up at the portrait above the bed again. “Bunch of ‘em, hangin’ ‘round. Why?”

Miss Walsh looked around her room and smiled. Mr. Davis knew he would never be interested in clowns, but Miss Walsh was, so it proved a good change of subject. “Greg was a clown.”

That was the most interesting thing she said that night. Unfortunately, it was also one of the last things she said that night. Before Mr. Davis could ask for more, she put her glass down and got off the bed. She said she was going to take a shower and that he was more than welcomed to the guest room, in case she took up too much space on her own bed. She left shortly after, never once looking at him.

He debated whether or not to spend the night. Miss Walsh wasn’t horrible, all things considered. Then he remembered the weeping clown hanging over the bed he was in, the clown statue mooning him on the vanity, and the many, many more clowns waiting for him outside.

How many clowns did she have in the guest room?

He decided he didn’t want to find out.

Mr. Davis began drafting a nice note in his head as he started looking for his pants. There was a good closure to a handwritten note -- if nothing else, it was a much more classy way to say “don’t call me tomorrow”.

✾✾✾

As soon as Mr. Davis heard Mr. Dickinson on the other line of the phone, he tried not to groan.

 _“Something’s gone wrong with my icebox, I’m afraid.”_ Mr. Dickinson, usually very even-toned, sounded off. As if he were afraid something terrible would happen if Mr. Davis wouldn’t show. Then again, it wasn’t right to point out someone’s nerves, so Mr. Davis kept his mouth shut on the matter. “ _Would you mind terribly if you stopped by around eight tomorrow, fix whatever’s gone wrong with it?”_

“No, no, course I will,” Mr. Davis answered. “First thing.”

 _“Oh, thank you. Not sure what I would do without you around.”_ Mr. Dickinson laughed a little at his own joke. _“See you then.”_

Mr. Davis pity laughed. “Right.”

He hung up the phone first. Mr. Davis sighed and started rubbing his temples.

“Everything alright?”

Mr. Davis turned around. Hermione stood in the hall connecting his kitchen to his front door. She must’ve closed the door when he hung up the phone. She had a backpack over one shoulder and a worried look on her face. 

“It’s this client. He wants me to fix his fridge tomorrow. But if I do a repair for ‘im, I get a migraine for a week. Somethin’ ‘bout his house makes me sick.”

“Why keep going, then?”

“He’s got too much money. You gotta always keep a few extra bucks on the table, Miss ‘Mione. Just in case. ‘Sides, for an eight o’clock appointment, it’s easy money.”

“It’s for eight tomorrow?” Hermione sounded worried. 

Mr. Davis turned to her. “Yeah. Why?”

“Oh, um.” Hermione rubbed her arm. “I need a ride to the station tomorrow. Mum and Dad got roped into back-to-back wisdom teeth operations tomorrow morning.”

“Ah.” Mr. Davis paused. “I dunno if I can find a way out of this.”

Hermione looked a bit sad.

Mr. Davis suddenly found a way out of this.

Later on, Mr. Dickinson picked up after the first ring. _“Hullo?”_

“Hi, it’s Davis. Somethin’ came up, so can’t get there by the mornin’.”

 _“What?”_ Now Mr. Dickinson sounded outright nervous. _“What’s happened?”_

“Nothin’ too bad. Just gotta drop my daughter at the station.”

Mr. Dickinson sounded like he’d started choking.

“Oi, sir?” The last thing Mr. Davis needed was to hear a man die over the phone.

It took Mr. Dickinson a moment to clear his throat. Then, as if he hadn’t suddenly started choking over the line, he calmly asked, _“Daughter?”_

“It came up real sudden,” Mr. Davis continued. “Her mum’s in Peru and my friend cancelled on me last minute. Real sorry -- the day after work for you?”

 _“I.”_ Mr. Dickinson paused. _“Actually, I think I found the problem. It’s a much easier fix than I thought. Thank you, but I think I can handle it from here.”_

“You sure, mate?”

_“Oh, quite sure. Send Miss Davis my regards.”_

“Right, thanks. I’ll still come by if it’s actin’ up later.”

_“Of course. Goodbye, Mr. Davis.”_

That was the last time Mr. Dickinson ever called.

✾✾✾

The post office was completely empty when Mr. Davis arrived. The only other person around was a clerk, but they were still completing their opening tasks. 

He fished in his overcoat for the purple envelope. When he got it out, he noticed a small crease on the top right corner, and straightened it as best as he could. It still curled in a little. Maybe Hermione wouldn’t mind.

As soon as he reached the mail slot, he slipped the purple envelope inside. He hoped it would actually arrive on time. The mail system in Birtwisle was awful, and Hogsmeade was historically worse. One was probably supposed to hope the best for these sorts of things, though, so Mr. Davis would try.

Mr. Davis glanced at the clock on the wall and swore. He had to get to an appointment across town. He readjusted his coat before he hurried out the post office door.


End file.
